Cat and Mouse
by Garmonbozia
Summary: Somebody sends John a message.  A furry, vicious little message with half an ear and a very, very interesting collar.   Loosely follows The Milk Goes Off, but standalone
1. Chapter 1

I can't breathe in the new place. Since I moved in at Baker Street my throat and lungs have acquired a considerable lining of dust. The air here is so _clean_. And there's nothing. I know exactly what size the sitting room is, because I can pace it in both directions. No stacks of books, no shelves, no curio cases. There's a desk, but it's pushed right up against the window. And all there is on it is my laptop and a dictionary and a physician's desk reference.

I used to live like this. Never thought anything of it. Now it feels like an office with a telly in it. I've been here weeks now and it still feels like that.

The days go by right and quickly, nothing much to remark on. Send emails and letters around the hospitals and the practices, expressing interest. Receive replies politely turning me down. None of them directly mentioning Sherlock and all of them meaning it.

'Confirmed bachelor' John Watson is, thankfully, gone. However it has been replaced with 'confirmed believer.' And I'm pretty sure a couple of those hospitals sold my new address because reporters keep finding me. That was why I had to leave Baker Street, because of the vultures. I don't feel too bad, though; Mrs Hudson's still there to give them what for.

Of course she's still there.

Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would…

That's the other reason I had to leave Baker Street.

That's why the nights here at the new place still pass _here at the new place_. I haven't been going out much. I get recognized now. I've gone from being the other guy in the picture to being the only one left in the picture, so I get recognized. It's just a lot of hassle going out, that's all.

I've been reading, actually. Mostly because I'm scared if I turn on the television again I'll never turn it off. Not reading anything in particular. Non-fiction, mostly. Bit of history, bit of nature study, bit of science. It's a box of books that got sent over from Baker Street by accident. Not mine. They have thumbprints on the corners and annotations in the margins. I don't understand what they mean half the time, and that's when I can read his writing, but they're there. And the books have a damp, crushed kind of smell about them.

They're dusty.

About midnight, the fox starts up. The fox starts up about this time every night, and every night I forget it's going to happen. If I would remember, I'd go to bed, and hold the pillow over my ears. But as it is, every night, it starts, and I hear my own voice from a long, long time ago echoing, "Why is there a dead fox in the fridge?"

Every night, I hear him say, "Would you rather there was a _live_ fox in the fridge?"

There'd been a fox in the bins for weeks, rattling and screaming all night. Driving Mrs Hudson to distraction. I'd called the council, but they hadn't done anything yet. And then there was a fox in the fridge with its neck broken and then there was no more fox in the bins. You don't need to be him to put it together, do you?

The only thing I never understood is why he put it in the fridge. Why not just dump it and be done with it? That's all that happened, in the end. I took it down from where he'd hung it by the tail and carried it down to the bins in a plastic bag. And every night I end up sitting here, listening to that fox scream, asking myself why the hell he put it in the fridge.

Tonight, though, I don't get to wonder for too long. Another noise joins the fox. Weird, distracting shriek and I go to the window.

A cat.

Foxes won't usually take a cat on. They're about the same size and they're both vicious, so they don't get in each other's way. But these two are ready to get stuck in.

No.

Don't ask me why I care, but I do. I don't want this, tonight. The only thing about the new place is, there's nothing just sitting around that I can throw.

The dictionary off the desk ends up going. Not a bad aim either. It lands on the bin lid between the two animals and they scatter in opposite directions, suddenly quiet.

That's it, so far as I'm concerned. They've shut up. Nothing's going to be out there moaning all night or getting half killed. I'll go down and get the dictionary in the morning. Right now, I'm going to bed.

There's nothing to keep me up. Wonder if I'll be able to sleep.

I sleep late. And deep, too; slept through the phone. There's a message when I get up. Mrs Hudson, asking how I am, saying the reporters tend to go home on a Sunday and I should come for dinner. Saying it's quiet without, and stopping there, because she doesn't want to end that sentence anymore than I want to hear her do it. I don't know. I'll think about it later, but I'm probably going to have breakfast and I'm not really doing enough with my days to justify two full meals. Especially not my Sundays.

For the first time in a while, I drift towards the laptop. There's a very faint, very light shimmer of dust on the lid. It's been a while. I had to stop the blog. Even with the comments disabled it was getting out of hand. The 'Believers' were worse than the idiots. I haven't touched it since, except to send out CVs.

Not that there's anything to record. I don't know why I end up over by the window.

I just know what I see beyond the desk. Something at floor level, crushed between the glass and the bars of the Juliet balcony. And the window smeared with blood.

I haul the desk out of the way and crouch to study it.

A bird. Or it used to be. The mangled body of a bird, one wing almost completely detached, feathers matted.

It didn't just fall there either, it's wedged tight.

I fetch a brush and a plastic bag and open the window. I need to get rid of the thing before I look into where it came from. I just need to get rid of the thing, full stop. And there's no one here telling me not to move the body, nobody wanting to poke the little corpse for clues. I don't know if that's refreshing or if, somehow, it makes the whole thing less interesting, less exciting.

I'm poking with the brush handle, trying to coach the bird upward. A sound draws my eyes left.

Perched, four little feet in a line, on the bar of the next balcony, that cat again. A rough, skinny looking thing with a half-ear and a scarred muzzle. Watching me.

From the cat to the bird and back again. "Was this you?"

Don't ask me what makes me do it. I leave the brush hanging in the bars and step back, leaving the window open. And yeah, the cat hops balconies and walks right in. Down over the desk, leaves a paw print on the laptop and sits in my chair. I should just point out from this very opening moment, I don't like cats. I don't want a cat. That's not what's going to happen here.

But somehow the flat feels a bit less _empty_.

But, no, I don't want a cat. Especially not a cat that takes on foxes for sport and territory. This is clearly the Charles Bronson of the cat world. And it's acting like it owns the place already, which I'm not mad about. It can smell the bacon burning in the kitchen and it's going for it, tail in the air and oh, sorry… _Charlene_ Bronson.

She stands expectantly by the open oven. The grill's too hot for her to touch, but she knows that I can do it. Anyway, the bacon's too far gone for me now. I prise it off the foil and dump it in front of her.

When she bends her head to eat I notice her collar.

Which is good, because I wasn't going to keep her. I can't afford a cat. And anyway, I don't want one. I was never planning on keeping her.

She works the edges of the bacon with bird blood probably still on her teeth. Distracted, happy, she doesn't mind that I ease the collar round to check her tag.

_My name_, it says, _is Sherly. Please return me to 221b Baker Street._

And on the back of the collar, someone has scratched a smiley face with the point of a compass.

I stand up and I pace away.

That cat, for all I know, is about to explode.

She doesn't know that, though. She notices that I'm agitated now, stops eating and looks up. And when I hold an arm out, she jumps up into it. I pick up the bacon too so she won't feel hard done by, and I carry her back to the window. Looking out again. Looking down into the yard by the bins.

Down below, the fox is dead. Someone has laid it out with the legs tucked down and forward, and the tail straight out behind. Like it's hanging.

They've drawn a line around it in chalk.

And my dictionary is lying at an angle to its bashed in little head.

"Now _that_, I say to Sherly, "wasn't you."


	2. Chapter 2

"Ah, yes, I was wondering if you could help me. I need to have a cat checked for listening devices."

And the emergency vet hangs up. Vets, apparently, have no Hippocratic oath. Doctors aren't allowed to hang up, even if what the person on the other end says sounds completely mad. _Especially_ then, actually. Then you're supposed to keep them talking. I mean, if I wasn't in fact holding my potential double agent on one arm, I would have been a textbook paranoid schizophrenic case. Very irresponsible, that emergency vet. I'm not calling him again, anyway.

I set Sherly down on the desk and try and look her in the eye. "Now, I'm very aware that I'm talking to a cat, so I'll probably only be able to ask you this once before the shame gets me. But Sherly, you'd tell me if you were a spy, wouldn't you?"

Sherly is unimpressed, this much is clear. Whether with my lack of trust or my failure to provide further bacon, that's harder to tell.

Anyway, I'm talking to a cat. And I've been missing something very obvious which probably explains everything and I have nothing to actually fear. I lift the phone and dial. It makes perfect sense. The name, the address, the aura of domesticity belying the ravaged outer appearance. I don't know why I didn't see it straight away. Stood here worrying about bugs and trackers and all the while the solution was right there on the aptly-named _answering_ machine.

"Hello?"

"Mrs Hudson, it's John."

"Oh, you're coming for dinner, aren't you? Of course you are. Can't be living on those M&S ready meals forever."

How does she know about the ready meals… She knows I can cook, so how the _hell_ does she know about the ready meals? Never mind, more important things.

"Oh, we'll see. Mrs Hudson, might be a bit of an odd question but… have you ever owned a cat?"

Of course she has. She had a cat a while ago called Sherly but it ran away or got lost. Lived a hard life on the streets, lost half an ear, developed an insatiable lust for bacon. It explains _everything_, including why Sherlock never mentioned it, if she'd named it after him. Perfectly logical explanation. Of course she has.

"Ooh, no… Horrible smelly things. And the hairballs. And always dragging things to the door." Which reminds me, still have to get rid of that bird. "Eileen Donovan had one-" I don't know who Eileen Donovan is. This could go on for a while. I sit down and I keep the phone by my ear so I'll know when she's stopped talking. Mostly, though, I watch Sherly sniffing the sofa.

I don't really have the time or energy for pets. I probably won't keep her. Obviously I'll keep her here until I know who sent her, and why, but after that I'll hand her in somewhere, explain whatever sick joke the collar and tag turn out to be, and have her adopted. It's nothing against her personally, or any other cat, it's just not something I really want in my life. I've never been much of a one for pets. And these people who get all _into_ it, who make videos and think their cat or dog or whatever is the sweetest thing alive, I wonder about people like that.

Sniffing along the base of the sofa, apparently there _is_ some dust in the new place. Sherly pulls back, wrinkles up her scarred muzzle, bats a paw at it, then sneezes. _Sneezes_. Cats sneeze. I did not know this. It shakes her whole body, throws her onto her back paws. Her little tail fires out straight for a moment.

Quite against my will, I laugh.

"Well, I hardly think it's funny," Mrs Hudson says, indignant. "He went into anaphylactic shock, he nearly _died_."

I've missed part of the story, and she didn't see Sherly sneeze. There's no point in trying to explain, so I just apologize. She goes on as though I hadn't spoken at all. It's nice, having her talking. Having that low drone that I've just about tuned out. I've been used to having background noise, see. For a social phobic with no meaningful concept of human interaction, Sherlock never bloody shut up. I put the radio on sometimes, but it's not the same. Radio presenters occasionally change their tone of voice, and they have never, so far as I'm aware, tried to subconsciously program me to buy them cigarettes when they think I'm not really listening.

I always was listening, though. That's the really weird thing about it.

Almost a full hour later, when she knows she'll have to redial soon or they'll charge her the peak rate even on a Sunday, Mrs Hudson runs out of stories about other people's cats and says, "But no, dear, not me. Never me, not with my allergies. Why do you ask?"

Sherly has given up on exploring for now. I am lying on the sofa and she is lying on me. And she's warm and very soft and it's an unexpectedly nice feeling. "…No reason. Just thought I'd heard that story somewhere." When Sherly purrs, I can just nearly feel it. "Look, I'm not sure I'll make it for dinner."

"Yes, you will, John."

Oh. Maiden-aunt voice. Icy voice. Refuse me if you dare. I've seen genuine physical fear go through Sherlock himself at the sound of that voice.

"…'Course I will. Only joking."

"I've got a chicken on."

"Lovely."

"And some roasties."

"Can't wait."  
>"Four o'clock, John."<p>

"Absolutely."

"Goodbye, John."

"'Til four, Mrs Hudson."

She hangs up. Involuntarily, I shiver. Don't get me wrong, she's lovely. Mrs Hudson, I mean. But you can't forget, the woman put up with Sherlock for _years_. She's got skin like a rhino and leather covers on her heart and, while I personally have never known it to happen, I don't like to think about what might happen to anyone who should cross her.

She always used to bleach the front step if Mycroft was coming. Industrial-strength, hospital level bleach. Kills all known germs and ninety-five percent of nasal lining. He'd walk over it in expensive leather shoes and smell it for _days_.

I'm not saying she's vicious, I'm saying she's effective as hell.

So now the plan to lie her and probably vaguely snooze in front of the television whilst puzzling over and probably stroking the grey ball of fur on my chest, that's out the window.

I pick up one of Sherly's paws and she lifts her head to look at me. How dare I disturb her. She was perfectly happy, lying there. With me. I almost feel bad. "You're going to have to move, I'm afraid."

Almost imperceptible, but there's a change in her purring. A darker note. A more dangerous one that takes me back to last night. This girl was going to take on a fox. I might have saved her then, but crossing her now still isn't a good idea.

"I know, I'm sorry, but what can I do? It's nearly one now. I have to go and get washed and dressed, and then I'm going to have to go shopping, because she didn't mention dessert, and that means it's up to me to bring it. She's an elderly woman, Sherly, I have responsibilities and I'm… I'm explaining myself to a cat, aren't I?"

I pick her up and put her on the floor. Get up and start towards the bathroom.

"Cat who's probably a double agent and all…"

A mewl. A full-blown actual _miaow_ noise. I turn. She's standing in the middle of the floor, looking right up at me from a few feet away. Staring. Daring me to say that to her face. No. No, she's a cat, she's not doing that, cats can't do…

"Alright, I'm sorry. But I do still have to go out."

She stares a moment longer. Then lowers her head below her hackles and skulks off.

She goes beneath the desk when she's annoyed, I've noticed that already. She sulks in the dark and nudges the dead bird on the other side of the glass. And the worst thing I could possibly do is pay her any attention, so I go to the shower instead.

An hour later I'm ready to go.

I consider, briefly, putting her out and closing the window, at least until I get back.

But that feels like a betrayal. And there's really nothing to steal. I'll just leave the window open a bit for her. She can go if she wants to.

I open the door, however, just as a policeman is raising his hand to knock it.

"Oh," I say. "Sorry. Hello."

He brings up his other hand. In it, a familiar, heavy blue hardback.

"Is this your dictionary, Dr Watson?"

Oh yeah. There's a dead fox in the yard. And a mutilated bird at my window. And a battle-scarred cat under my desk.

Oh, no, my mistake; twining around my legs. Miaowing again. Drawing attention to herself and her half-ear.

…Honest, Constable, the three of them all walked into a door…


	3. Chapter 3

Cat's out of the bag.

No pun intended.

The journalists have found out where I'm living now. They've also 'found out' that I recreationally kill and maim animals. The very kindest of the articles posits that I may have been driven mad with grief. That's the Observer. The Sun are happy to just call me Doctor Death and be done with it. By the time I got back from Baker Street yesterday they were already here. About four of them then. Two outside, one on the stairs, one right outside my flat.

I haven't been out today, but there are more than four of them now. You can hear them, moving in the corridor like rats in the walls. Sherly keeps scratching at the inside of the door like she can get at them if she only figures out how to work it.

"I think we're sitting in, today, girl." Oh, she doesn't like that. Down goes the head, sloping off towards the desk. She doesn't even like over there today; I've had to draw the curtains and while she seems to quite enjoy trying to climb them, she doesn't like sitting in behind them. "Don't be like that. I've still got that chicken."

Leftover roast. Mrs Hudson said she'd never get through it all on her own. The truth of the matter is she just wanted me to have another day of 'real food' before I end up back on the ready meals. Although by the time Sherly gets her share I'll be lucky there's enough left for a sandwich.

It's eleven-thirty, and already I'm starting to feel restless. I don't know if it's the fact that I finally got out for a while yesterday, or the fact that I'm now _forced_ to stay in, but the hermit lifestyle suddenly doesn't suit anymore.

I could try watching TV, but you know the vultures outside are going to be listening out. Watch the news and they'll say I'm obsessing about the days when I used to be on it. Watch daytime trash and they'll say I'm depressed, still prostrate with grief all this time since. Watch Animal Planet…

Could break out the old blog again. Report from within on the Siege of the New Place.

'Day one. I can bear the solitude, but won't these callous hounds think of dear Sherly, who I'm sure has an active cat social life outside the apartment? I watch her pine away and think of her namesake and what was done to him by these same ghouls.'

…Nah, best not.

The phone rings.

And I _swear to you_, I _feel_ them. The ones in the hallway gather suddenly towards the wall like iron filings to a magnet, and I imagine them with safecrackers' stethoscopes, desperate for any scrap of sound. I take the phone through to the kitchen away from them and sit by the window. It's lovely there, nice view over back gardens rather than parked cars, but the curtains are closed, so it doesn't much matter.

"Hello?"

"Oh, John, it's not true, is it?"  
>Oh, thank you, Mrs Hudson. Thou of the Unshakable Faith. Your trust never ceases to amaze me. They called Sherlock a fraud and a criminal mastermind and tore him down like the statue of some despised dictator, and never once did you waver. And they say I killed a fox and you have to ask.<p>

"No, it's not. Wasn't me."

"Only it said in the paper-"

"I'm innocent, Mrs Hudson."

"And you did ask me about that _cat_."

"The cat's alive and well, Mrs Hudson."

"I take it that's why the hacks are off my doorstep, then. Don't let them wear you down, love. And don't put anything sensitive in your rubbish, they're worse than fo…" She just stops herself, trips over the rest of the word 'foxes' and just stops. Then proceeds to tell me all her stories about what the hacks have done to her the last few weeks and what she's done back.

She gets to the part, which she's gotten to before, about how she hasn't moved a thing in the apartment, and she won't either, until she knows it's safe. They're all hanging about, you know. Looking for souvenirs. The believers are worse than the mainstream; all wanting a piece of him. Relics of the saint.

That's the part where I rap on the table and tell her I have to go and send the scum away from the door.

I don't though. The scum are all confused, wondering what that banging noise was.

I just sit there for a minute. The kitchen is quiet and dim, like a headache. Or maybe it's just that I have a headache and the kitchen is quiet and dim.

"I don't want to be here," I say out loud. The whining noise in my own voice shocks me. I'm not much of a one for outright complaining, not when there's nothing I can do about it. And there isn't. I know exactly where I want to be, but it just isn't an option anymore. So there's no point in complaining about it either.

I've said all this out loud too. Not mad about the fact that I'm talking to myself. Even Sherly's not listening. Sherly is, in her distress, trying to climb the kitchen drawer handles to get to the bag of chicken on the worktop. Never should have let her watch those Felix ads, they've given her ideas.

I stand just enough to grab the freezer bag from over her nose. The sound she makes is precisely the sound I heard in my head on any given occasion when Sherlock stormed blindly past Molly Hooper. You don't need to be telepathic, it wrote itself all over her face. 'Unfair', 'Mine', 'I earned that', 'I've got a bloody medical degree, you arrogant twat'.

Alright, never in so many words, but the sentiment was the same. And Sherly doesn't have a medical degree. That I know of. She has, however, been around the block a bit and now that she can have luxuries she's damn well going to have them. She's a very expressive cat, you know.

And in exactly the same way, now that I'm holding the power, Sherly trots unquestioningly over and sits by my feet. I pick a bit off for her, hold it down so she can take it off me. But by the time I've straightened again she's looking up, expecting more.

I throw her one more little scrap. "I need some of this for a sandwich later."

She ignores the scrap on the floor. Eyes on the entire bag, tail waving lazily back and forth. She can do this all day. She can stare me out all day.

That's fine, I can do it too. I've got nothing else on today and I can't even go out.

I last about three minutes. Then I get up, put two full slices on a plate and close it in the fridge away from her, and give her the bag.

She eats, but doesn't eat much. She's made her point, and now she wants attention again. Jumps up into my lap and pushes her head against my stomach.

"I bet nobody else ever takes care of you, do they, Sherly? I mean, most cats, they've got a whole network of little old dears who'll feed them at the back door, but you don't strike me as that kind of girl. You're an independent soul, aren't you? You only even came up here because I helped you out that time and I'm talking to the cat again, aren't I?"

I stand, put her down on the chair and try to walk away. Nowhere to go, really. Maybe back to the living room. Maybe I'll read for a while, kill an hour like that. Maybe I'll turn the TV up full blast and make the journalists think I'm really up to something in here.

She makes that indignant, hard done by noise again. But when I turn she isn't looking at me. She's looking away to one side like she can't even bear to.

"…I'm _sorry_." Jesus, she's good. That was a _genuine_ apology. "God, you're as bad as _him_. As long as there's something to take you'll take it and we're all supposed to _thank_ you for it. _Him_… thank _him_, stop projecting onto the cat, John, it's not healthy…"

Sherly jumps down from the chair. Takes things at her own easy pace and comes to me. Puts her paw on my shoe the way she does when she's getting ready to jump. And yes, I proffer my arm and she hops up into it. Puts her little head against the side of my neck. God help me, it really is comforting…

"No offence, kitty, but I have no idea how you do it. On your own all the time, I mean. Just depending on yourself all the time. That was the thing about the army, you didn't have that in the army. You were always surrounded and everybody did for everybody and someone was always looking out for you. And then I packed all that in.

"Don't get me wrong, I don't regret that. I couldn't have done that anymore. It's not an easy life. But I was on my own here too. And then there he was and then there he went and now here I am. Do you know what I – _cat_, John, talking to a cat, don't ask it questions, that's worse…"

And then she _miaows_. Not like she's shouting at me for not treating her like a person, it's not that miaow. It's a miaow like…

But that's ridiculous.

"I never knew what it was like before. To have something you can't imagine being without, and for it to go away. And to know you'll never have it again. That it's not just on holiday or gone out for milk. You convince yourself, sometimes, that it's on a train going farther and farther away from the city to find somewhere that'll still sell it cigarettes, and that's why it's late. But it's not coming back, not ever. He's not coming back. He's in the ground in that churchyard and-"

Before I can go any further, the phone rings again. Everything shatters, and suddenly I'm very aware of talking to nobody who speaks a word of English.

I sigh, blink a couple of times in the dim, and pick up the phone again.

"Hello?"

"You mean you don't know where he is either? You useless, fucking bastard, I swear to God, you just can't get the fecking sidekicks these days, can you? Christ I always knew you were fecking _useless_!"

"…Oh my God, _Moriarty_."

"Answer the bleeding question, Doctor Death. Oh, and by the way, if you've harmed a hair on that girl's head, I swear to Christ I will quite literally find out if bread can be made from ground up bones."

"What do you mean _where he is_? He's in a grave, in a graveyard, and if you're so clever you can figure out where it is yourself."

"_Fecking_ useless. Can I have my cat back then?"

My heart stops. Sherly is back on the chair again. Looking up at me. Big glittering eyes, butter-wouldn't-melt. Harlot, I think. Mata Hari. And yet… And yet…

"…No."

"Excuse me? Doctor Watson, that is _my_ cat, I have her papers. I'm paying her bloody Direct Line cat insurance in monthly instalments-"

"Sign it over. She's not going back to you."

Moriarty laughs. "You think she's there because she _likes_ you? You don't know the first thing about pleasing a cat."

"The horrific implications of that sentence aside-"

"-I'll rephrase-"

"- Sherly isn't going back to you. She's staying here, with me."

"Does _she_ know that?"

Scratching behind her ears, I rage at him. An idea occurs to me and I say, "_Fine_ then. Why don't we let her choose?"  
>"<em>Fine<em> then. I'll come round as soon as the hacks get out of the way, alright?"  
>"<em>Fine<em>! I'm looking forward to it!"

"_Fine_! Put the fecking kettle on!"

"_Fine_!"


	4. Chapter 4

It's dark out by the time he arrives. And raining. Sherly went out in the afternoon, but the weather brought her back. We split the last of that chicken, the stuff I was keeping. I suppose I felt bad. Felt like I hadn't fought for her. Should have just put my foot down, and the phone too. But it's better this way. Better she has the choice for herself.

It wasn't a bribe. The chicken, I mean. It wasn't a bribe. It's not like that. This is all about Sherly's free will.

Still, I'm glad she's sleeping when he raps at the door.

He's shorter than I remember. That's nice, at least. And he comes in quietly, almost respectfully. Shaking the rain off his coat, but that's all. No wisecracks, no madcap, no, as far as I can see, ulterior motive. Matter of fact, he looks unwell. This has preyed on him.

And it's not much of a shock to turn, and see myself reflected in the window, and see the same expression on my face.

Over my shoulder, he spies Sherly, curled on my chair in front of the desk, tail hanging off under the arm.

Moriarty bites back a smile, a little noise in his throat that might be strangled laughter. "I suppose she's got her accustomed spot already, has she?"

"I used to sit there sometimes."

"She sleeps in my bath."

And he might be happy enough to giggle that, might be smiling and trying to tell me with every carefully calculated angle of his body language how much he's missed her, but I'm not thick, you know. Contrary to popular belief. I know what he's doing here and I'm not falling for it. She's moved out of the bath now, my friend. She's got a walnut effect frame office chair now, and she's loving it.

"Listen, Moriarty-"

"-If… If we're going to go through this you should probably just call me Jim."

"_Jim_, I'm sorry about this. It's not that I… Well it _is_ that I don't trust you, actually. Could you roll your sleeves up for me, please?"

"Pardon?"  
>"I just need to check for bacon."<p>

"Oh. Understood. Absolutely." While he flashes his cufflinks, it happens again. That little smile, the one it looks like he doesn't want showing, it comes back. And it almost, if I didn't know better, looks genuine. "She worked fast on you, didn't she? I wasn't for giving her bacon at first. She had a do a lot of purring for that."

"Why, is it bad for her?" That is out and said before I can help it, before I can hide the panic on my voice. But to my surprise and his credit, Moriarty doesn't take the mick. He replies honestly and in earnest.

"Only inasmuch as it's bad for anybody. Best keep it as a treat." Fine. I'll remember that. Since she's staying, that's the kind of thing I should probably nip in the bud, right away. I don't say that out loud, but I think he can see it on my face. He tries to turn away, but only manages to look at her again. Stares for a long second. He doesn't quite turn back to me, because he doesn't take his eyes off her. "Listen, John… I can call you John, can't I?"

There are nights in your life, there are events, when even a C4 waistcoat can be forgiven. An understanding can pass between two men and be stronger even than vengeance, even than hate.

"Tonight? Absolutely."

"Listen, please don't take her away from me. You can have people. You're the kind of person who can have people. I don't have that, not really. She's so much easier to talk to than Moran."

"Well, we decided. We'll let it be her choice." He swallows whatever false lump he managed to build up. Overplaying it, if you ask me. Finally tears his eyes from her. "She's been sleeping since Points Of View was on. Have a drink."

"Oh, that's… that's hospitable of you, thank you."

Hospitable, my eye. And if he thinks I've broken out the good whiskey because he was coming he can think again. I just want everything smelling alike. He's had warning. He's had all afternoon to prepare for this. He could have been bathing himself in Whiskas for all I know, and I do not put it past him. As well as that I need him to sit down. Check for any bulges in his pockets. That man could be _loaded_ with catnip and think I wouldn't have a clue. He's got another thing coming, that's all I'll say.

I think he sees me looking though. He laughs, actually. Not in a nasty way, but he says, "Yeah, I suppose that would have been a good idea." Runs a hand through his hair, cuffs still hanging open. "I just didn't think. I didn't think of anything." Yeah, sure. That's so ridiculous I might almost fall for it. "I was stupid. I should've known you'd be mad about her. Everybody meets her goes mad about her. Sebastian's tried to lure her away from me four times now. And that's just the ones I know about."

"Oh, you're so _full_ of it!" I tell him. Sharper, louder than I meant to, but I'm sorry, it's been building up. He's sitting there, drinking my whiskey, looking at my cat, and thinking he can get away with spinning a yarn like that. "If you actually loved her, if you had any respect for her at all, you wouldn't have sent her here. That fox could have killed her, for a start."

"No." It's a proud, definite 'no', defying me to cast any more doubt on how he feels about Sherly. "No, that would never have happened. I was there, I was ready to step in if…" He shudders, as though he can't even think about it. "You saw what I did to the fucker for even barking at her."

"Yeah, that was a bit much, wasn't it?"

He shrugs. If you squint and get him at a certain angle in the right light, there's maybe just a hint of sheepishness on the edges of his swagger. "Haven't had much on the last few weeks. You know what I mean. S'been a bit quiet."

I can take that. I can nod along with that one.

"So you called the police then?"

"Yeah. That was the plan, really. Get you barricaded in here on your own, wait for Sherly to get you to open up."

"It's behind her ear, isn't it? The listening device."

"No flies on Doctor Watson."

"That's the other thing, though." That's the thing I probably _should_ have been worrying about all afternoon, while I was in fact worrying about who Sherly's going to choose. "On the phone, it sounded like you were waiting for me to tell you-"

"Oh, God, yeah. Alive and kicking somewhere. Only do me a favour when he does come back and act all surprised and heartbroken, because that's probably why he didn't tell you."

A moment's silence. Side by side, the clink of ice against glass.

"...One last thing; why does it say Baker Street on her collar?"

"Well, I couldn't put _my _address. Then everybody would know where i lived. And if anything had happened to her then... then I wanted her to go somewhere safe."

Yeah. Yeah, alright.

Eventually, Jim sighs. I mean, Moriarty sighs. "This is killing me. Do you mind if I open the window? She'll wake up just to make us close it again."

"Yeah. Yeah, alright, I suppose so."

He gets up. So do I. He has a bit of trouble with the latch and I help. And then we stand back. There's a sort of unspoken agreement that no toe should be farther forward than the edge of the rug, that we stand opposite sides of the coffee table. That neither of us makes a sound, and we let her wake by herself except for the draft.

About a minute of quiet and Moriarty breaks, "Listen, I know you think this is all a put-on but-"

"No." Not looking at Sherly, not knowing what she's like. No, I couldn't accuse him of lying tonight. "I don't."

"…Thank you."

Sherly comes round, slowly at first, then with a mew of disdain, asking why it's so bloody cold all of a sudden. Then her eyes light on Moriarty and she sits bolt upright. That's a 'what the hell are you doing here?' move. That's a good sign for me.

"So now we just have to wait and see who she goes to," I say aloud, just to make the rules entirely clear here.

He doesn't reply. His fist is balled up, fingernails biting into his palm, and he bites his lip, eyes shut. Willing her towards him. I know how he feels. In my own mind I can call and coax her and just hope, just pray somehow she hears. She'll be better off here. I never started out looking for a pet, but how can I send her back to live with that lunatic?

When Sherly finally moves again, it's not to hop down to the floor, not to come over and place her paw on the toe of my shoe or his. She hops up instead, to sit a moment on the desk. Surveying the both of us carefully. Sitting as high as she can as if asking to be treated as an equal, acknowledging our respect for her decision. The breeze from the night outside catches in the curtains and ruffles her fur along the spine, behind the ears.

Something regal about her scarred, ragged face. And it is in precisely the same moment that neither Moriarty nor I can hold back any longer, and in precisely the same moment that we both breathe out one last, desperate, 'Please'.

Sherly whips around, and in a curling flash of tail disappears out the window and into the night.

Before I know it, we're both hanging through the frame behind her, but she's gone. Moriarty grabs me by the shirt and pulls me back. "What did you do? Had all that arranged, did you? What kind of signal did the two of you work out?"

"Stop it!" I shout back, and I take none of the pleasure I ever would have expected in slapping him down from hysteria. "She _chose_, Jim. That's all that happened. Sherly chose."

Chose neither of us.

Chose the wild of the storm, the world that had hardened her so, left her so undone. A time of bacon and sleeping in bathtubs, that's fine. Everybody needs a bit of that when they can get it. But it's not enough to live on. She needs her own world, her independence, needs her dominion over nature. Red in tooth and claw. Some people just aren't pets, aren't made to be owned.

_Animals_. I mean to say 'animals', not 'people'.

In the loss, in the quiet, each of us knowing what we feel and not daring to speak it, the clink of ice again, and of glass against glass. Don't ever tell Sherlock I raised a toast with Moriarty. Don't ever.


End file.
